


A Feast of Ashes

by justsimplymeagain



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dinner Parties, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Inspired by Art, M/M, OOC Characters more than likely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-09-27 18:30:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20412355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justsimplymeagain/pseuds/justsimplymeagain
Summary: Aziraphale has fallen, he falls before Armageddon – Falls because he chose to love Crowley. So he does the next best thing, he flees and it would be years later when Crowley manages to track him down at a dinner party.A Dinner party hosted by none other than Hannibal Lecter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea behind this story came from an absolutely gorgeous piece of art done by skxviii on Tumblr who created this masterpiece: 
> 
> https://skxviii.tumblr.com/post/187208954178/wrong-omens-my-reverse-au-with-gluttony

** _~*~ The Fall ~*~_ **

One never expects to fall, Aziraphale suspects. It just sort of happens, or does it come slowly over the years? He wouldn't know and he never got the chance to question anyone about it. And the act of falling itself, well that was a conversation that never took place between himself and Crowley. It probably should have, perhaps Aziraphale would have been able to prevent or at least prepare for it. Although, deep down Aziraphale knew that nothing on Heaven or Earth could prepare you for Falling. Prepare you for the pain, the loss and the anger and deep sadness that squeezes you from the inside out while you burn from the outside in.

It was the easiest way to explain it really.

For Aziraphale, it happens after he delivered a thermos of Holy Water to a dear friend – a demon. Crowley.

Crowley, the kindest demon in existence offered him a lift to wherever he wants to go. An offer declined, declaring that Crowley moved too fast for him. Even though it was absolutely rubbish, Aziraphale was already far past the point Crowley no doubt wants them. He loved the demon, loved him so terribly much it wasn't funny. It was why he caved and gifted the demon with what he wanted even though he was afraid that it would be used as a suicide pill. He prayed to Her that it wouldn't be, and perhaps that was his first mistake.

It gave him away. Left him with nowhere to hide and made it so he could no longer properly word things to make it seem as though he wasn't so far gone.

Because the next thing he knew – was pain. The last thing he would remember was standing in Heaven and landing back in his bookshop. The last thing he would hear is his own screams and the flap of wings; the shredding of those very wings. The pleas of mercy, pleas that came from him but voice so strained he could hardly recognize himself. He called out to Her. He called out to his brethren; cold as they may be he still called to them. And yes, he even called out to Crowley.

But no one came.

And Aziraphale was left to his own suffering.

The sun raised high into the sky and he screamed.

The sunset and the moon took its place and he cried.

His legs couldn't work right, he couldn't stand and everything was so loud and overwhelming he wanted to rage against it. Shouted profanities in dead languages and cried for silence and mercy in languages that could be found across the world.

It would be a week before he could make it from one side of his bookshop to the other without forgetting how to make his legs work properly. A week to realize that he wasn't simply a newborn remembering how to walk; after all, he's walked for centuries and flew so high that birds would be envious.

He has yet to look at himself, to clean the bloodied feathers from his floor and discard the rotting flesh of what used to be his wings. He wondered if he did that himself or if someone helped.

It would be another full week before he can look at himself in a mirror after showering and tending to the open wounds on his back. A week before he brings himself to clean the bookshop and hide the wings in the attic where they would continue to rot and be nothing more than bones and dust in the coming years where they would remain undiscovered by everyone including Crowley.

He carefully ran his hands through his hair, darker at the root while the tips were still white. His canines more pronounced and there was no white to be seen in his eyes as his pupils seemed to glow pale blue. They weren't friendly anymore and he wanted to cry for it. Everything about him before was to make sure he looked soft, nice and safe.

He couldn't even dress in his preferred clothing as those were stained red from the loss of his wings, from his fall. So he had to go for something else. At least temporarily, because they didn't look like they fit well enough or at least that's how he felt in them. Instinctively he knew that they weren't.

In the years that were to come.

Aziraphale would never truly become aware of a demon now taking care of his bookshop as he flees and keeps himself out of sight of Crowley and would continue to hide from his demon even as he was searched for. He would sometimes send a postcard to his friends flat to ensure that he was quite safe and to not worry. Aziraphale wouldn't be truly aware that every time his postcard is received a demon rages and searches, drinks and cries at the loss of a friend who refuses to be found.

The postcards would stop twenty years after they started. And two demons seemingly move on with their existence, on autopilot mostly for one and a numb exploration for the other.

** _~*~ The Dinner Party ~*~_ **

Only in his mind is he referred to as Aziraphale now, most people simply refer to him as Mr. Fell. When he comes across the odd angel they seemed to have been taken to making sure he knew he had no name that matters anymore. They made sure he understood he was no Duke, no Prince and not even a demon of value. It reminds him of how he was often viewed as an angel. It shouldn't have bothered him, but it did and oftentimes Aziraphale was left upset. But over the years he didn't really put up much of a fight, didn't care to if they didn't want him to have a name, he let them refer to him as nothing.

He was still – himself. He was sure of it.

So Aziraphale just carried on moving through the world.

Stopping to eat as he used to, but now he hardly enjoyed his meals as they often taste of ashes in his mouth. A pity really, he could go for a good crepe right about now. When he wasn't at a restaurant, he was at a library reading or directing people to the books they would want, the best ones that could help them with earning the knowledge they seek. The people in the libraries would often describe him as polite and some would even think that he was a teacher. It was honestly quite flattering. A little pick-me-up when he was down. They would, however, question why he would be wearing sunglasses even indoors, he would never answer them merely redirect their attention as best as one could. Later when he was alone he would always break those sunglasses and curse them because he would be reminded that he has to wear them now and worse – much worse they would remind him of other sunglasses hiding beautiful serpentine eyes. He'd always have a new pair by the morning and would always go about his day like he never spent the night mourning.

This would be his life for years.

1967 becomes 2005

Still completely unaware of the fact that a demon still looked after his bookshop and unaware of newly acquired books would be stored away in the upstairs apartment of his bookshop, just in case he was to come back and would want something new to read. Still unaware of how hard a demon from London would search for him and rage when he’s not found. All the while, missing his dear friend he first met in a Garden so very very long ago.

It would be in Florence Italy, where Aziraphale would find himself randomly invited to a dinner party held by a man who freshly moved from the United States with his husband. They were looking to settle into the community and opted to hold a dinner party.

Aziraphale accepts despite the fact that he knows that the taste of the food would only taste of ashes. He merely introduced himself as Mr. Fell when asked for his name, he could have given them Aziraphale but after being told he had no name for years it didn’t really feel right anymore and he didn’t care enough to use it anymore. Deep down, he did long to hear one person call him by his name – but couldn’t bear the thought of that person seeing him as he is now instead of as the angel he used to be.

What he didn’t know – was that he would be reunited at the third dinner party held by one Doctor Lecter and his husband. One he found out was a retired teacher and FBI profiler who gone through some heavy problems thanks to being arrested for murders he did not commit, the other a therapist who consulted for the very same FBI agents who arrested the former teacher. Of course, Aziraphale knew instinctively that there was more to the story and there was a darker connection held by both to the wrongful arrest and the inner workings of both men. But he didn’t press.

He didn’t care to search out the reasons behind every word said and every decision made. He just politely socialized with both of them and their adopted daughter who hid the fact that she had only one ear. He didn’t enquire about the history behind that as well.

He simply enjoyed their company.

At least, he did until the third dinner party.

It started off as normal. Aziraphale was dressed in a lovely dark navy three-piece suit, gone were his antique preferences as he didn’t feel like they fit him well enough anymore and his favourite outfit was already stained with blood and was left with wings that have long since rotted away by now. Wearing clothing that could be considered modern helped him separate himself from who he used to be, it helped keep him from mourning everything he lost when he fell. It was easier to pretend that he was okay.

An announcement was made on what they would be eating and an explanation of why there was an empty place setting, a guest was running late. Once the toast was given, people started to eat and carry on conversations and praising the food set before them. Aziraphale always praised the food to be polite and his praises were always based on memory from other dishes he’s had over the year.

He doesn’t wear sunglasses at the dinner table during dinner parties, he just explains that he got drunk and had his eyes tattooed some time ago now. It fits nicely as far as explanations gone. He had to listen to risks that came with a decision like that, but once that was done things commenced as normal. Meals had, conversations held.

A knock on the door interrupted his conversation with the young Abigail Hobbs who has taken up schooling.

Instead of having anyone else answer the door, the host himself – Hannibal Lecter, excused himself from the table to answer it. Aziraphale didn’t think anything of it as he continued on with his conversation with the young Abigail. At least until he recognized the voice.

“I appreciate your understanding, for my being late.” A very recognizable voice said, it didn’t sound sincere to Aziraphale’s ears but no one else would be able to pick that up because one thing his demon – Crowley was able to do was fool people easily enough if the demon truly wanted to. He was a demon who was incredibly skilled at temptation after all.

“Of course…” There was more talking, but Aziraphale couldn’t pick up a single word as he nearly dropped his fork. He didn’t even hear Abigail ask, “Are you okay Mr. Fell?”

He needed to go.

He needed to run.

“Mr. Fell?” Another guest noticed his plight which was unfortunate, setting his fork down he stood up. He won’t admit outwardly that the darker parts of his mind now wanted to do horrible things to erase and hide his sudden need to flee so not a soul could speak of it and not a soul could speak of him so he could once more go into hiding. He didn’t succumb to that.

Instead stood frozen as the host entered with his late-arriving guest, starting to introduce him as, “May I introduce, Antho-” Hannibal never got to finish his introduction as his guest stopped dead in his tracks as eye contact was made between Aziraphale and Crowley.

The first thing he notices was that Crowley looked good, dressed in a black and red suit of his own. Casual but high class and not a hair out of place while glasses took on a more stylish appearance instead of the normal glasses he used to hide behind. The second thing he noticed was the barely noticeable quiver of a lip that screamed hurt and upset. That urge came back and Aziraphale squashed it down.

“Az-” Crowley started and Aziraphale shook his head to say no. Of course, Crowley tried again.

“Don’t.” Aziraphale doesn’t want to hear his name and longed for it all the same. He didn’t notice that the food seemed to instantly rot and wine turned sour as he leaned against the table to steady himself as he ignored the ache of where wings used to be. Aziraphale ignored how the food was spat out and guests vomited as all they were able to taste at that moment was rot and ashes in their mouths all the while everyone’s stomachs would clench in hunger at the very same time.

He could hardly breathe, forgetting briefly that he didn’t need to.

It hurt. Seeing Crowley and being reminded of what he lost and longing for Crowley to be closer at the very same time.

Crowley seemed to eye the table and the scattered guests for a moment before approaching the table himself leaving the host where he stood. Aziraphale couldn’t tear his eyes away from Crowley and felt almost relief when that noticed hurt was buried under anger.

“38 years you ran away.” Crowley accused as he leaned against the back of a now-empty chair. Guests were no longer present as most fled to bathrooms and outside. Only the host, his husband and their daughter remained but huddled to the side in curiosity and concern.

“You slept during the 19th century.” Aziraphale shot back. It was petty perhaps, but valid. There was a hissing growl from Crowley, something that almost sounded like a hurt accused of you know why I slept. And he did or at least part of the reason, he refused to give what essentially could have been a suicide pill to his friend who always had such terrible sadness creep up on the demon from time to time and often more than he deserved.

The host seemed to collect himself and tried to cut in politely, but Aziraphale wasn’t going to have that. While Crowley, the kind and the most approachable demon from Hell simply glared warningly; Aziraphale the former angel, on the other hand, shot a withering look while a snap his fingers left Hannibal feeling like his tongue weighed a ton and his mouth sealed shut. Things won’t taste right for the human male for some time until the after-effects wear off. The other two seemed to wisely hang back and remain silent.

“You ran away.” Crowley hissed, turning his attention from the humans in the room to Aziraphale.

What could he say to that?

And after a long pause and a hurt look escaped Aziraphale as he looked away from Crowley and the humans inching away from them while trying to figure out how to help Hannibal, the host who didn’t know what he invited to dinner.

“I fell. I’m not your angel anymore.” It wasn’t exactly an explanation or a reason. It was just a fact and Aziraphale didn’t know how to think or what to say about it. He would later look at his own wording and what that meant for him and for Crowley, but not now as there were other things taking precedence.

“You could have…” Crowley tried, but Aziraphale was having none of it.

“I called out to Her. To my brethren, cold as they may have been I still called to them. I called to – to you.” Aziraphale explained as best that he could. It felt like his throat was drying up and his words were becoming increasingly heavier and harder to say. It wasn’t fair, it truly wasn’t.

“You. You’re so clever, why are you being so - so stupid. You could have used a human invention – the telephone. You could have said something in your postcards. I would have…” Crowley hissed out, pacing back and forth. It was easy to spot the anger barely being held in check, but it wasn’t just anger. There was hurt as well. Aziraphale didn’t know how to handle that or what to say about it.

A thought occurred to him, did Crowley know that he was here? How did he find Aziraphale? But those were something he’d have to figure out later.

“I was hurt, Crowley. I was scared. I – I realized some truths about myself, my feelings and I fell. I looked in a mirror and I didn’t see myself, the angel I used to be. What was in its – my place was a skewered twisted thing and I was afraid. So I ran. And I ran. And I ran.” Aziraphale managed to bring himself to say and he couldn’t bear to see the hurt and crushed look on Crowley’s face as the demon moved around the table so he could stand at the same side as Aziraphale. For a moment it looked like he wanted to reach out and touch him, comfort him somehow.

“And here I am. Clearly, my dear boy, I didn’t run far enough to not be found.” Aziraphale said and perhaps it was cruel to say. To imply that he had the intentions still to keep running and more importantly to run away from Crowley, to avoid his closes friend for nearly 6000 years give or take a few centuries. But who could blame him when emotions were running high and everything he’s fled from seemed to be coming back in full force.

He watched as Crowley seemed to recoil away from him at the implication, almost falling into old habits that caused them to separate after the whole fraternizing incident in St. James Park. But he didn’t and Aziraphale didn’t know if he should cry and rage or if he should be thankful.

“Cowardly thing to do, angel.” Crowley accused with a curl of his lips as he eyed Aziraphale up and down for a moment.

“I’m not…” Aziraphale tried to correct.

It would be much later that it’s explained to Aziraphale that him being called an angel wasn’t always him being called by what he was. That it has, in fact, become a term of endearment that would stick in the years that would follow this conversation.

With a wave of his hand, Crowley paced angrily as he snapped and snarled at Aziraphale for running away as he did and how sending impersonal postcards was an incredibly cruel thing to do to a demon who was worried. How it was cruel to not trust Crowley to help him.

“And you certainly can’t use the excuse of us being on opposite sides as a reason for why you didn’t come to me. Ask me for help, scared or not I could have helped you had you taken a leap of -” Crowley’s words trailed off as the demon before him paced once more, incapable of remaining still for this conversation. Or argument in any case.

“Faith.” Aziraphale finished for him.

That hurt, perhaps as bad as falling did.

Aziraphale wanted to run away.

So he did.

He fled the house. And he fled from Crowley. Or tried to, the demon crashed into his back knocking him into a newer model of a Bentley that belonged to Hannibal Lecter and breaking the passenger door’s window in the process. Not that Aziraphale could focus on that as he was turned around and pushed against the car, face to face with an angry Crowley who in the process lost his sunglasses. It’s been too long since he’s seen those beautiful serpentine eyes, angry or not, they were beautiful.

“You want to run, fine! Run.” Crowley snarled in his face, releasing Aziraphale and backing away as though he was burnt.

Watching Crowley storm off was harder than Aziraphale could have ever imagined. All Aziraphale could do was slip to the ground and do what he fought hard to not do since he fell and that was cry. It wasn’t fair, that pain – this pain, was the very thing he was fleeing. What he was now was the very thing he didn’t want Crowley to see him as. Better to have him at a distance then lose him, but lost him he did.

And that was worse than falling.

It would be at his apartment, rented temporarily and kept bare of anything important that he finds a postcard. Not unlike the ones he’s sent over the years only more personal than anything he could have ever imagined writing.

_“Angel, I know what I said. But don’t run forever. Your bookshop is still there. The Ritz is still there. We could still go on that picnic if you want.”_  
_ From Anthony J Crowley_

Aziraphale would carry that postcard everywhere he goes for the next month and a half. Before he finds himself in a Library reading whatever book he could find by Oscar Wilde, feeling a bit nostalgic.

It was the first time in 38 years since he’s picked up anything by Oscar Wilde.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm incredibly sorry for how long it took me to update this story. And incredibly sorry that when I deleted the previous chapter 1 I deleted comments. That was not intentional...

Eventually, a time did come for Aziraphale to make his way back to London. Not quite following Crowley, but working his way there. Although it was later than Aziraphale anticipated, by at least a few months to actually get there and then at least a month on top of that where he fought as hard as he could to not suffocate from the emotions and memories he’s originally fled from. But he managed it, managed to walk down the street without choking on the memories and the feelings left lingering. All the while politely ignoring the admiring looks he received as he was still wearing his rather nice three-piece navy suit. He looked quite stunning, but in no way outdated as he preferred at one point. Or still secretly prefers.

During his walk, while managing to successfully avoid the park he discovered that there was a bakery that wasn’t there before and another coffee shop that looked incredibly tempting in its own right. Times certainly have changed and the cars looked different and there wasn’t a single face that he could recognize as he strolled down the streets until he stopped before the one familiar sight that hasn’t changed outwardly.

A.Z. Fell and Co.

The bookshop he fell in.

The bookshop he called home once.

Did he even have the right to enter? It was a scary thought and it took him a moment to push it aside and focus on the building before him.

From out here, he could see plants spread about and looking absolutely perfect. Not a brown spot or wilt to be seen. The sign on the door had said closed, but when he tried the door handle the door wasn’t locked. He took that as an invitation in its own right and perhaps it was. Crowley always did have a touch of optimism, although he would never admit to it.

Going in was slightly harder than he anticipated, but he did and managed to make it a few feet before noting the smell. Given that it was closed, there was no foul smell in the air or anything that might be able to deter potential buyers. Instead, it had that pleasant scent of old books. With a steadying breath, he made it past small tables filled with familiar books, Aziraphale only stopped when he heard a familiar voice calling out from the back of the shop, “We’re closed.”

Crowley.

He could almost smile.

There was an annoyed hiss before the demon came into view no doubt with full intent on forcing whoever was in the shop to leave, only stopping in complete shock at the very sight of Aziraphale. Now that he was here standing in front of Crowley, whatever he planned to say didn’t come out. He had to fight hard to not start fiddling with his clothing as a distraction. What could he say? What could he think? Now that he’s here, after a few months of wandering and trying to get himself to a point where he could face Crowley and be able to come back here.

He couldn’t do anything but stand and stare dumbly.

Barely healed wounds felt fresh and new and the urge to run once more came back in full force.

Only this time, he made no move to run. Not again. No matter how tempting it truly was. He could still hear his own screams as he stood there staring at Crowley. His own sickening realizations on how no one answered his pleas for mercy or for someone to care.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Aziraphale managed to greet, “Hello Crowley.” His greeting must have snapped Crowley out of his own shock. However, greeting Aziraphale received in return was more out of habit than anything sincere at the moment.

“You came back.” Crowley pointed out before adding, “Didn’t think you would.” There was hurt there, he hurt the demon before him something awful. Aziraphale didn’t know what to do about that, didn’t know if that was worse than his own pain or how it measured up. He didn’t know how to comprehend any of that at the moment beyond acknowledging that it existed.

“Then why did you leave your postcard?” Aziraphale points out and for a moment Crowley looked mildly confused, Crowley clearly knew what postcard he spoke of but didn’t know what Aziraphale was talking about. So Aziraphale pulled it out to show the demon before him. Crowley approached and looked it over, even flipping it back to front for a few times.

“Angel, I burned this because…” With a hiss, Crowley seemed to force himself to continue, “… I chickened out, meant to give this to you the night I found you. But I didn’t, didn’t even know where you were staying.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to focus on with the multitude of emotions that he was experiencing from embarrassed to hurt and anger.

Above all of that, there was that urge to run again.

“Are you going to run?” Crowley saw it; they both knew that he could, after all, he’s done it before. But instead, Aziraphale shook his head no. He kept himself standing where he stood; it took a tremendous amount of strength for him to do this. But he did and he was still there. That should be worth something, right? Aziraphale was still in London, still in his bookshop and more importantly still standing in front of Crowley.

It took so much for him to verbally confirm, “No, no I’m not going to run. Although I won’t lie, I’m tempted to.”

“Why.” There was that hurt and anger, Aziraphale deserved every ounce of it but that didn’t stop him from wanting to hide from it. He truly was a horrible demon, just like he was a horrible angel. Go figure. Although he had barely a moment to think about that as he should have known that Crowley wasn’t finished when the other demon continued with, “Why come back if you just want to run away?! What game are you fucking well playing?!” There was an unspoken; _I can’t go through that again so why are you making me go through that again._

The temptation to cry was there but pushed back.

“I’m-I’m not playing a game, Crowley. I don’t – I don’t want to run forever, even if that is tempting. I can’t. Not from you. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry that I hurt you.” Aziraphale managed and he was nearly proud of how he managed to get it all out in the open. Or at least most of it, there was so much they should say or should talk about, so much ground they had to make up for. Especially Aziraphale.

A hissing sound escaped Crowley as the demon paced, Aziraphale watched with a great deal more uncertainty than he expected while near inhuman sounds escaped the demon before him. If he looked closely, he could see tears that seemed to want to fall and the slight wobble in Crowley’s lips as the demon hissed and paced back and forth. He was so incredibly hurt and Aziraphale was to blame. And he knew it.

“I’m s-” Aziraphale tried, but found himself interrupted.

“Don’t.” The interruption came with an angered hiss.

“Cr-” He tried once more only get a glare overtop black round glasses.

“Shut up. Just, shut up for a moment.” Once satisfied with Aziraphale’s compliance, Crowley went back to pacing before snapping, “I’m allowed to be angry. I’m allowed to…” _be hurt._ Aziraphale could only nod in agreement.

“You are. But it doesn’t stop the fact that I am sorry and I know that there aren’t enough words in any human language that can convey it. But know that I am.” Aziraphale managed to say only to get a glare as a response before muttering something about wine in the backroom. An invitation and as odd as it was to be invited to his own backroom, there was a spark of hopeful joy present in him for the first time in a while. Aziraphale took the invitation up and followed behind and sat in his old spot as Crowley sat in his after pouring two rather large wine glasses for both of them.

No words were uttered while they silently got drunk off of any wine bottle both recognized by Aziraphale and wine bottles clearly brought by Crowley when the other demon took over the bookshop in his absence. Which got him thinking, how did Crowley manage to look after this bookshop?

“W-we ne-eed need to – to uh… we need to talk…” Aziraphale by some miracle managed to make out, he couldn’t deal with the oncoming conversation while being drunk. Although there was protesting coming from Crowley who eventually agreed to sober up with him only to have his face twisted in disgusted disagreement at the aftertaste of being drunk and sober in quick succession.

There was some unhappy muttering, but Crowley brought in a couple cups of tea. It wasn’t exactly the proper time for it, but they both needed something to wash away the taste and that was the quickest thing he had on hand that wasn’t water from the tap. It’ll do.

“How did you come to look after m-the bookshop?” Aziraphale asked, it wasn’t exactly the most important question or at least it shouldn’t be. But Aziraphale wanted to know. Why was a demon in charge of the bookshop? Where was heaven, why didn’t they send an angel down to take over it?

“Your bookshop.” Crowley corrected sounding as grumpy as he looked. Aziraphale wondered if he should correct Crowley, but there was a selfish part of him that enjoyed hearing that so he kept quiet as Crowley moved on to explain how nobody came around or laid claim to it or made Crowley leave or try to kill him for having it. That stung more than he anticipated, nobody from Heaven checked up on him or looked into why he fell.  
“Nobody came to investigate?” Aziraphale asked curiosity once more the drive behind his questioning.

“None that I saw…” There was an awkward silence there, almost like Crowley was wondering if he should apologize. Something Aziraphale wanted nothing to do with; Crowley had nothing to apologize for. Aziraphale verbally pushed that aside, made an excuse of it probably already being well known so there was no need and nothing important to Heaven was stored at the bookshop. His bookshop.

Silence took over for a good few minutes before Aziraphale broke it once more, asking how Crowley has been and what he’s been up to. Only to get verbally reprimanded for even asking that the answer was simple when Crowley wasn’t looking for Aziraphale he was looking after the bookshop while tempting people just enough to keep Hell off of his back. Not that they bothered him, after all, they were under the impression that he was responsible for Aziraphale falling.

And it was that confession that seemed to break Crowley and force Aziraphale to sit there dumbly as Crowley collapsed before him.

“W-was it me? Did I do this to you?” Crowley was on his knees and the tears that were unshed before were now falling freely and Aziraphale’s heart broke at the sight. He knelt in front of Crowley taking the other demons face in hand and as gently as he could he cleaned those tears away. How could he say that in a sense, Crowley was at fault but not for the reason he thought.

But he’ll do what he’s been known to do several times before. And no doubt will do several more times in the future.

He’ll lie.

“No, Crowley. What happened to me, that was my fault and mine alone. I said things, I prayed in a way I shouldn’t have. I wasn’t careful. So I fell, consequences of my actions. Not yours.” Aziraphale said, promised. Didn’t tell him what he prayed for didn’t say that he prayed for Crowley or admit to loving him more than an angel should. Instead, he just kept promising and reassuring his long-time adversary and dearest companion that he was innocent in this as he was for the Spanish Inquisition.

It took a while to calm Crowley down, but eventually, they both were seated in their chosen seats. Silence took over and neither looked at each other.

What now?

It was an unspoken question but a very heavy one. Their previous agreement lost a lot of its meaning because Aziraphale was no longer an angel. How could one lend a hand when needed as they did previously when they both were demons? It wasn’t like they could work together? And Aziraphale, what should he do? Was there paperwork he needed to fill out or handle? Would he be reassigned and made to go somewhere else and away from his bookshop and Crowley? Would he have to go to Hell? Stay there until he had enough rank to come back to Earth?

What would Crowley do? If they believe he made an angel fall and that gave him enough wiggle room to be up here without being bothered, how would that affect Aziraphale? Did that make Crowley his boss or something? Or make Crowley a Duke or something?

What now?!

He must have asked that out loud because Crowley looked pained and rubbed his face.

“We’ll figure it out. But – but yeah, there’s paperwork. You-You’ll have to come with me to see the Prince’s or at least one of them. Or Dukes, whoever they hand your file over to. But. But I’ll make sure to do what I can to have you assigned to me. To be my – uh – assistant or something. My -” Crowley explained as best that he could.

“Reward.” Aziraphale offered.

There was a quiet confirmation made and Aziraphale felt so incredibly horrible for his friend.

“Think of it this way, Satan won’t be the one who sees you.” Crowley tried to joke. It fell incredibly flat, to say the least. It left them both in a rather uncomfortable silence until Crowley decided that they’ll worry about that tomorrow. For now, he opened another bottle of wine and filled both their glasses once more. A promise of catching up was silently made; there was a lot of that needed and healing that needed to be done.

But for now, they got drunk once more.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help it! Can I blame my friend FireChildSlytherin5 lol?


End file.
